I dream
by J.Q.F.
I am a god, feathers trailing
through jewel-toned ocean on my way
to the meeting of other gods. Some drive Volvos
rusted and busted; some hitch rides, three to a seat.
I dream
the children hiding
in my grandmother’s house are actually there
for me—under blankets, behind rocking horses,
beneath the bathroom tiles—it’s my birthday! (maybe)
but baby,
I’m a tinpicker now: flashblind
I’m skimming on elbows. Tear down disaster
to a stainless steel sky. Richman, poorman, beggarman
thief, somewhere in my bones I lick your armpit.
Somewhere
in a peatblock hovel is my family, faces black
with coal. But the arc of your waist as you turn with the camera—
gunslinger! No more office party Christmas kisses now
‘cause I am a saltmarsh: natural buffer to the tides.
Reedbed
woodland, grazeland
heath: living on joy we’ll be destitute soon, said
with a wave toward primary colors. But what if
Restraint is also a god, and instead of withholding
she invites
us both through the door
to massage away this sleepless bloat
with hands growing strong as shoes gather
dust, and night after night beside you
I dream
J.Q.F. is a poet and editor in New York.